


from time to time

by Dana



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Post-Series, just some soft yet sincere character interaction, pre-slash maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 09:30:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10487643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: 'Just what do you see in a toughened old bastard like meself?  And no, this has nothing to do with my dashing good looks.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> Personal (and perhaps, quite silly) challenge: I wrote some dialogue and then came back to fill in the spaces, without editing the original dialogue in any way, shape or form. Just some soft yet sincere character interaction, because I can't get these two out of my head.
> 
> This isn't betaed. I need to get better with posting without constant reassurance and hand-holding, so, here we go!

The air in the stairwell is heavy and warm, gloomy like the whole of CID, smoke curling up from the end of Gene's cigarette. Sam finishes his climb down, reaches the final step before the landing, and would have gone a few steps further if not for the sound Gene had made, small but pleading. Sam stops, glances down at the crown of Gene's head, the ash at the end of his cigarette burning bright red as he inhales.

Sam bends and folds to fit beside him, arm and leg brushing against Gene's, though the other doesn't seem to mind. No, they sit together in silence, Sam breathing in, Gene exhaling slowly, a near-constant plume of smoke rising up from his mouth.

He flicks the ash to the side, away from Sam. And he doesn't look up, though Sam's looking at him all the while, caught up in how grey-green his eyes are in the murky mire of the stairwell, how deep the shadows are in the creases of his skin.

The sound of Gene's voice rouses Sam from his thoughts – he'd been wondering what he might end up cooking himself for dinner, or if he should get some takeaway instead, and if he should invite Gene over – but Gene had a way of showing up, even (or maybe _especially_ ) when he hadn't been invited, so that seemed like some sort of moot point. But Sam was used to that, now, probably needed the company even when he acted like he hated it. And he'd never really acted like he hated it, had he?

'Just what do you see in a toughened old bastard like meself?' Another short pull off his cigarette, Gene's lashes fluttering as he blows a breath out, more silence, more smoke. Sam's nose twitches, and he lifts his chin up, because now Gene's tilting his head to the side, glancing at him from the corner of one eye, and Sam finds he wants to get a better look at his face. 'And no, this has nothing to do with my dashing good looks.'

Sam huffs and the ghost of a smile softens Gene's lips, just for one second. He drops his cigarette to the ground, crushes it out beneath his loafer, and Sam could complain about it – he could complain about a lot – but he decides not to, maybe just because he can. He lets the silence slide back in, swallowing the both of them. Shouting at Gene, disagreeing with him, that's what's easy – it's always been easy. Sarcasm before sincerity, as if it were a means to an end.

And yet, he know it's the truth that spills from his lips, effortless and heartfelt, in a way that could and should befuddle him – only, because it's Gene – it doesn't. 'I know that beneath that bitter, alcohol and nicotine-stained exterior of yours lies a good man, one who's proven himself capable of change, one who wants to do the right thing. From time to time, you don't even mind doing it the right way.'

Now Gene's grinning, his lips stretched wide, hard and sharp and with a flash of his teeth; it's nothing at all like that temporary smile, those few moments before. 'I'd have beaten Scotty's face in if you hadn't stepped in, you know that, don't you?'

And it's true, Gene would have, and he was that angry, he could have turned on Sam when he decided to put himself in the way. But no, he'd torn out of the interview room, left Sam to follow, if that was what he wanted to do. 'Yeah, I do. But you resisted temptation, and that couldn't have been easy. None of it's easy, Guv. It isn't supposed to be.'

Gene's eyes flicker back open, dark but bright and wide; but he's watching the far wall, not looking at Sam. 'We have our punch-ups.' There's an open sort of frankness there, the tone close to yearning. Like he wishes it was something else. Like Sam didn't sometimes think the very same thing.

He could question it – he questions a lot of things, but he's feeling contrary, so he keeps it to himself. 'I've become surprisingly attached to our punch-ups. They help clear the air, and then we can crack down and get things done.' They make him _feel_ – and if the inside of his mouth hadn't gone so suddenly dry, he'd have mentioned that, too.

Only Gene leans his head back, a glimmer of light playing across the slight sheen of sweat on his brow. Sam stares, still, _harder_ , and he licks at the inside of his mouth, aching. 'You've been there, I know.' Gene continues. 'That's what you're trying to say, in your roundabout way.'

Gene turns to him as he flounders about, sussing out what he needs to say, how _much_ he needs to say. If Gene was going to mock him for anything, for speaking at all, for caring too much, surely he'd have done it by now. Sam leans towards him, and Gene does as well, Sam's throat gone tight, his voice dropping closer to a whisper. 'When I tried giving that tape to Rathbone, and at the train tunnel, with Morgan. Each time I had to tell myself that none of this was real, because sometimes, all I wanted was for it to be real.'

And he lifts his gaze up to meet Gene's, who stares at him head-on, no shame at all. Sam knows been a right bastard – Gene never had to take him back, still trust him, not now that he knew what Sam was capable of. Only there's something there, something so tangible, a connection that exists on so many levels – it's not a new thing, no, only the longer it lasts, the deeper it goes. Sam doesn't know what he'd have done, if Gene had sent him away.

Maybe, just maybe, it was the same for Gene.

Gene swallows deeply, mouth tightening into a frown. Sam leans in closer, just to better hear what Gene has to say – for such a sour expression, it would have to be something big. But it was soft, too, and only for Sam to hear – not that there was anyone around. '...I feel better about myself whenever I've done something to make you proud. You make me _want_ to do the right thing.'

Gene lowers his head; at this angle, to Sam, it looks as though his attention has fallen onto Sam's mouth. His chest tightens at Gene's words; there's a hot flicker in his gut, and he can't help but smile. Somehow, he knows that whatever gets said, the likelihood it'll get taken beyond the stairwell is slim to bloody none. But, he's heard it with his own ears. '...we tend to make a good team.' And he means it, though he's never said it before, and he's not always felt like it was an equal thing – and not just because Gene was his superior, though only technically, in rank.

'We do.'

The air was heavy already, and warm, but Sam's got sweat slipping down the back of his neck now, polyester sticking to the skin. He lets a soft breath out, and Gene's got his eyes on his again, there's no turning away, the way there's no going back.

But it's not the right moment, and Sam cracks a smile as he bumps his shoulder against Gene's; the tension cracks, just like Sam was hoping, but the knowledge that he was running scared from the impossible will stay with him for a while. 'I should make a joke about getting you to say that again under oath.'

'Ah, and I could have done the same, Sammy-boy.' He gives a smile in return, small but sharp, grabbing hold of the stair and grunting as he hoists himself up. Sam misses, suddenly, all the points where they'd been touching, as minor as they'd seemed at the time. Gene half-turns away from him, glances back up the stairs towards CID. 'The allusions will have to do, our windows of opportunity have passed.'

They have, and Sam feels sorry for having let them go – not just to have reminded Gene he did in fact have a sense of humour, but for so much more than that. Now Gene's gone so far away from him, and Sam's still sat upon the stairs. 'You really aren't all that bad looking.'

Gene snorts in amusement, and Sam rolls his eyes, reaching an arm up for leverage, pulling himself to his feet. He dusts his hands off and Gene's watching him with his eyes opened wide, smirking with ease. 'What, is that another joke? Two for two – might be a new world record. Well, leastwise, it is for you.'

'I mean it.'

The smile fades, like Gene's well-aware how serious this really is, where the joke ends and the truth begins. 'Right, but don't you get me started: I know I'm not even half as gorgeous as you.'


End file.
